


Silk Robes and Solitude

by otherwiseestella



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018), Sabrina the Teenage Witch (Comics)
Genre: Ambrose Spellman - Freeform, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shower Sex, Silk - Freeform, Solitude, Yes he is, dressing gown, isn't he an absolute snack, joyful shower times, solo masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-21 06:18:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16571255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherwiseestella/pseuds/otherwiseestella
Summary: Solitude is hard to come by in the Spellman household, but Ambrose manages to snatch a little, to reflect on what he most enjoys...(AKA: shower smut, silk robes, steam).I’m new writing in the fandom - so I’d love any suggestions, comments, kudos. I love Ambrose and I really want to get him right.





	Silk Robes and Solitude

Ambrose Spellman is gathering quite a collection. He sends away for them, from the glossy catalogues which occasionally – misguidedly – drop through the letterbox of the Spellman household. Money is not an object. Money is never an object, really, and although he arguably preferred the hand-dyed silks and plush velvet robes he had half a century ago, these are still slinky, their colours muted and sophisticated, and they feel beautiful against his skin.

That, too, is why his feet are bare. Floorboards – lino – then the mossy wooden steps down to the garden, which are slick underfoot after rain. All the little variations, the way that slight differences make him shudder. The mortuary floor, all tiles. The floor of the shower. He walks his legs up the wallpaper, sometimes, to feel the faint impressions of it, its seams, between his toes. 

His feet are so sensitive now, soles soft from his long a house-arrest. He has shoes, of course. Keeps them lined up neatly in a cupboard, polished, ready for –it will come, it must come – his release. But at present, it is the robes which are his primary pleasure.

Well. His primary pleasure that can be donned around the house, worn to breakfast, lounged in. Ambrose has decided that his house-arrest is a form of perpetual morning, and that the only way to bear it is cultivate an air of rumpled insouciance – the impression, he thinks, that he has just rolled out of bed with someone delicious.

Zelda has tutted about it – more than tutted – argued that they might have company, that he is a Spellman and a warlock and he should think more carefully about first impressions. Dear Zelda, he does not say, I have thought long and hard about first impressions. And I want them to want to fuck me.

That is what he is doing, now, upstairs, his back against the back wall of the shower, the pipes complaining about the quantity of hot water he’s using. Imagining them. The visitors. He calls up old lovers in his mind’s eye. Calls up everyone he can think of, from the plumber who comes occasionally, to women he bedded at Oxford, all shy moans and sharp teeth.

Nobody, however, is piquing his interest. Half of them are dead, and those who are immortals often make him feel a combination of boredom or anger. He sighs. The bathroom fills with steam. As it gathers, the steam obscures his vision, presses the edges of the bathroom out of his vision, until the sink, the door, the toilet are all mere shapes. It feels private, somehow. Intimate. The steam could be sheets, their whiteness winding round him. All that he can see is his dressing-gown, hanging against the back door, a streak of dark red in all that white.

‘Oh’, he says, low, and his voice out loud surprises him. He pads over to the door, the cold of the air stinging against his warm flesh. Still damp – sodden, in fact - he slips the robe on, feels it cling to him. The heavy silks wets against his dripping body, and shapes round him like an embrace. Then, without letting himself think too much about it, he slips back into the shower.

He lets the water heat him up again. He feels the robe grow heavy round him and hang. It feels like sin, beautiful and luxurious. It feels like hands, all over his body. He runs a hand through his hair, and the other hand begins, unbidden, to snake over his hipbone. He digs his thumb in, the pressure hard, the way he likes, and it stutters another moan out of his lips. The steam muffles the noise, lets him feel alone – something almost always out of reach in the Spellman household.

It has been a little while since he had this sense of solitude – and Ambrose remembers, in that moment, just how much he likes the sound of his own voice.

‘Oh Ambrose’, he says, taking his time over his own name. ‘Oh, but aren’t you pretty. Pretty and soaked, and oh – sweet Satan - totally fucking debauched.’

He’s getting hard, now, properly, and in the wet steam of the shower, he wraps a hand around himself. For once, it feels not lonely, but delicious. For once it feels in perfect balance, that he and he alone best knows this dance, and he, alone in the steam, is glad he is alone.

He looks down, tilting his head so the water runs down the bridge of his nose. He is a little smug, yes. Solitude and entrapment leave ample time for working out, and he’s… well. He’s doing very bloody well at keeping in shape. The edges of the robe outline his chest, fold close against his stomach, opening again over his hips. The view is absolutely obscene, all wet silk and warm skin.

And, lord below, he’s hard now, hard and leaking, thumb running over the head of his dick, and he watches as the precum beads, and then mixes with the water.

‘Absolute waste, mind you’, he murmurs to himself. Would look far prettier on someone else’s lips, smeared across a stomach, pooling onto the small of someone’s back. He shudders, then, speeds up his strokes, twisting at the wrist to pull at his foreskin. His breath is tight and shallow. He is so, so hard now, his blood high with it, as if he could maintain the intensity forever. The steam, white and pretty, curls around his body. Rivulets from the shower are trickling down his torso, across his nipples, down the back of his neck, like gentle fingers.

He thinks, as he lets his eyes drift closed, lets his hand speed up, of a thousand beautiful bodies – breasts and cocks, and broad flat chests, pointy chins and arched backs and arses that make his mouth flood with anticipation.

‘Fuck, you’ve fucked some pretty people, haven’t you?’, he asks himself. Aspects of them float towards him, are dispersed. He remembers sweat – his own now beading on his forehead, instantly rinsed by the water – and imagines smells – cast-off underwear, guttering candles, incense, the warm smell of bodies and the hay smell of hair. The wet silk smells beautiful, and has turned translucent over his body. It smells like hot weather, like the scented oil he occasionally dabs on his neck.

‘The world won’t know what hit it’, Ambrose thinks. ‘Such a pretty boy, ready to wreak havoc. Ready to get dirty.’ He thinks of all the people whose eyes would glow when they saw him, whose tongues would skate over his lips, whose hands would take on just that touch of a tremor that meant please, ruin me.

Mortals and warlocks and witches and – well, he thinks of the shadow arms of the spirit world, the pretty writhing of demons. And then he thinks about hands, the nails long, almost claws. Thinks of them on his back, across his scalp, working their way down his body, leaving bright red scratches.

‘Oh, god, please, please. Undo me, fuck.’ He pants into the mist, lets his voice carry into the bathroom. He imagines those hands round his cock, matched with a dark voice murmuring sweet, filthy words that guide him to completion. 

With a breath that is more shout than silence, Ambrose comes. He lets his hands get dirty, lets himself come all over his stomach, watches it run back down into his dark hair. Before it can be washed away entirely, he swipes through a silver stream of it, touches it to his tongue. 

His spend is bitter, tart and musky. It is beautiful. He cannot wait to share it, again, to watch someone else lick him from their lips. He smiles to himself, rolls his neck, and reaches for the shampoo – Zelda’s pretty, expensive bottle.

Soon, he thinks. Soon.


End file.
